Wholock
by MakennaRoth
Summary: They always said that Sherlock wasn't normal, wasn't quite human. Well, what if they were right? What if Sherlock was actually a regen of the Doctor? Will contain a bit of Whouffle and Johnlock for all you shippers out there. (:
1. Regeneration

**PART ONE—New Doctor **

**Chapter 1—Regeneration**

_**Doctor**_

The Doctor was afraid. It had been so long since he had experienced that particular sensation—being afraid. Even when he was scared, he had always managed to act brave, to be bold and sarcastic and clever. But now, he had no courage—he was so, so afraid.

He was dying. This was his last life.

A mere moment ago, everything had been fine. Better than fine! He'd just saved the world again, and was strolling back to his TARDIS with a merry whistle. Clara was already inside—as soon as the invasion had ended, she had practically skipped back to the blue box. He paused to look back, to survey the destruction—that was his fatal mistake. _Never look back._ When he looked back, it happened.

There was one Dalek—he had presumed dead; it _looked _dead, with its metal body torn open, exposing a rainbow of wires stained by…blood? No—it was oil. But apparently, it wasn't dead, because it tilted its eyestalk, cried a gargled _"Exterminate!", _and weakly lifted its whisk-looking device. Blue-white light, the color of lightning, came straight at him.

He was ashamed of what he did next: he froze. How many times had he escaped death, cleverly talked his way out of dangerous situations? How many times had he defied the odds? For almost two thousand years now, that was what he had been doing: breaking rules, defying death. Now he panicked, didn't even try to duck or run.

The light connected right over his left heart.

Pain: blinding, searing agony. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, he couldn't seem to do anything except drop to the ground with an agonized cry. His right heart began to work double time as his left one stopped, trying to compensate, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.

He was dying.

_Again!_

His blood was burning. His molecules were tearing themselves apart. He was familiar with the process—this was his twelfth time doing it, after all. But the pain never failed to astonish him. He wanted to scream, but all he could muster was a low groan. Gold particles, the rawest form of energy in the universe, floated around him as his body tore itself apart and re-wrote itself. The next sensation, he could only describe as eruption. Every atom, every molecule, every cell that made up his existence exploded at once, destroying him. And he died.

Then came the healing. His heart restarted, blood pumping back through his veins. He was no longer burning inside. He breathed a long sigh of sweet relief and sat up slowly. He looked at his new hands—they were long and pale, his fingers almost delicate-looking. He felt along himself, trying to guess what he would look like now. He was thin again. He would have to look in a mirror, soon—perhaps he was finally a ginger. He had to hope.

He looked at the Dalek—it was definitely dead now. The blue light of its eyestalk had faded. Its final act had been an attempt on his life. He snorted in contempt—what a typically Dalek move. He shook his head as he got to his feet, calling for Clara.

"Clara!" he called, and his voice came out different. Deeper, sharper, and with a vague hint of sarcasm, though he had no idea what he would be sarcastic about. "Clara, new development! Come and see!"

She poked her head out. "Doctor?" she called, looking around. Of course, she didn't recognize him—new face, new voice, new everything—she would have to get used to that. So would he, as a matter of fact. He was rather taller than before, and he _saw _more. He had always looked, but he had never truly _seen _before, not like this. Information flooded his senses, seemingly unconnected bits and pieces of information stringing together to form conclusions he would never have assumed before, forming a large picture of a shiny new universe for him to observe, to dissect and study and analyze.

The Doctor shook his head—he would have to get used to this new brain, with how it thought and processed information. For now, he focused only on Clara, his impossible girl, tuning out the other information so it didn't overwhelm him.

He cleared his throat. "Clara, it's me—I'm right here." Her eyes snapped to him and widened incredulously.

"Doctor?" she said, uncertainly. He felt sympathetic—it must be disconcerting when someone changes completely in front of you. He smiled.

"Yes, Clara, it's me. I've just regenerated—a Time Lord's way of…well, cheating death, basically." He ran a hand through his hair, startled by how rough and curly it had become. Yet another thing he would have to get used to.

She peered at him, puzzled. "Cheating death? So…you can't die? You'll just keep regenerating, forever?" She looked sad, for some reason. He recalled a time, long ago, when she had said, _"We must be like ghosts to you—we're nothing."_ She'd had that same look in her eyes then as she did now: loneliness, sadness, hurt, even a faint trace of anger, and a _lot_ of fear…fear of what—of him? No, she'd never been afraid, not of him, at least. What, then? He studied her for a long time, forgetting she had asked him a question and he was supposed to reply. His attention was consumed with trying to understand what was bothering her so.

His mind started to race, presenting him with several possibilities, one right after the other, each quickly dismissed. There was nothing romantic between them—well she had kissed him before, but those had been to prove points, nothing else, so surely they didn't count—so he doubted that was the cause of her hurt. She wasn't one to hurt easily. Why, then did she appear so upset?

He recalled her last words to him—they were always the same: "Run, you clever boy. And remember." She wanted him to remember her. Did she think she was so unimportant that he would easily forget her? Is that why she was so upset? He shook his head incredulously.

"Humans!" he murmured. "So sentimental, and so stupid sometimes." He grinned at her look of offense, poking her forehead. "Such tiny little brains, I don't know how you get around in them. Dear me, what is it like in there?"

"Doctor!" she snapped, startling him a bit. She was rarely cross. "You're not answering my questions." She crossed her arms huffily and he sighed, trying to remember what she had asked him…ah, yes, she had been asking him about regeneration.

"No. We don't regenerate, not forever. We have a set limit, thirteen lives. This…is my last one. This is my last body, my last life, my last chance." He stuck his hands in his pockets as this new thought struck him—this was his last life. After this, when this body died, there would be no more Doctor. He was dismayed—who would save these frail humans he was so fond of when he couldn't do it anymore? Who would prevent wars across the universe? How could he just…end, just stop existing? He'd lived so long—death seemed more like a myth than a fact: Possible, but not something that necessarily _had_ to happen.

Clara looked devastated. "You mean…if anything happens to you…" She trailed off, looking stricken.

He nodded grimly and finished her sentence through cold lips. "I'll be dead. Permanently dead." A shudder of fear skittered through him at the thought. It had been so long since he had been afraid. He'd been alive for so long, he'd subconsciously begun to assume he was invincible. _I'm a winner,_ he'd boldly proclaimed once, ages ago, _Time Lord victorious._

He wasn't thrilled about this reality check. He didn't want to be reminded of just how easily his hearts could actually be stopped, how quickly his existence could end. He didn't want to die—he wasn't ready to! There was still so much to do, so much to see. The universe was always growing, changing, always full of new ideas, new possibilities—forever couldn't possibly be enough time to do and see it all. Forever was what he thought he had, but now he didn't even have that. He shivered again.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Clara looked at him in concern. "You're so pale, and you look…" She trailed off again, biting her lip thoughtfully.

_Do I look afraid? Or perhaps pathetic? _he silently supplied, because that was how he felt: terrified and pitiful. Really, when had he turned into such a coward that dying scared him witless? He had been willing several times to sacrifice his life, for friends, for enemies, for entire races. Where was that courage, that willingness, now? Had it been an act?

_Rule One: the Doctor lies._ Had he become so good at lying he could even fool himself now? The thought chilled him. Dear lord, something really was wrong with him if he was thinking like this. Was it because of this body? Did it just think this way, all the time? If that was the case, it might drive him mad. Or was it just because this was his last body, and he was paranoid and afraid in his old age? He couldn't tell. There was too much going through his mind, too many thoughts, too much to process. It was incredibly overwhelming.

He shook his head as though he could shake loose these scattered thoughts and attempted to focus. "I'm alright, Clara," he managed. "Just getting used to the new me."

"Well…" Clearly, she didn't know what to say. Sirens started wailing in the distance. How long had they been standing there? It felt like hours had passed, but in reality, it must have been only minutes. The Doctor looked around himself, at the dead Daleks, the human bodies, the wails and screams, the smoking street. Of course the police had been alerted, even if human police were incredibly incompetent. Still—he had been in prison once—a simple misunderstanding involving a gun, an accidental marriage proposal, and a banana—and had no desire to repeat the experience.

"We should go. Come along, Clara." The Doctor went and pushed the doors of the TARDIS open. He stepped up to the console, stroking his hands lightly along the edge. _Hello, old girl,_ he thought fondly. The TARDIS practically purred under his hands in response, and he smiled fondly. "Where should we go next, Clara? Somewhere fun, I think." As he spoke, the TARDIS started showing him possibilities, planets, events, people, anything she thought he might enjoy. He was delighted, but he wanted Clara to choose—it was always interesting when he let his companions decide what to do. The outcomes never failed to entertain him.

"Before we go anywhere, I think perhaps you should go change, Doctor," she said, eyeing him critically.

The Doctor looked down at himself, and realized his clothes were torn, stained with oil, and burned. "Ah…right. I'll see to that. You two—" He waggled a finger at Clara and the TARDIS, an amused warning in his voice as he continued, "No cat fights while I'm not here to supervise you."

Clara's face heated up in indignation, and he grinned as she muttered huffily, "Oi! That was _one time, _Doctor, and you know she started it!"

The Doctor laughed. "Just play nice for a few minutes while I go dress." He strode off into the halls, whistling softly under his breath as he went.

**[A/N: Note that this is the Doctor's last regeneration, technically Capaldi, but I will not be following that timeline at all because this is a fanfiction and I am screwing with the plot. I guess it's AU? Whatever, point is this Doctor will not follow the show's plot at all so don't be expecting that. Although I will bring up quotes and old scenes and things from the show. There will be several chapters as the Doctor, then Sherlock, then the Doctor again. And there will be kind of a mix of Johnlock and Whouffle, still undecided on how it will end so I'm open to requests and advice. I hope you guys like it! Let me know BY LEAVING A REVIEW! Keep it real, guys.]**

—**Makenna**


	2. Secret

**Chapter 2—Secret**

_**Doctor**_

He followed the twisting, seemingly endless hallways until he arrived at his room. _Left, right, straight, third fork on the right…_

He pushed open the dark blue door, shutting it quietly behind him. His new eyes surveyed his room—the walls changed according to his moods and tastes. Currently, they reflected home. The floor was bright red, the ceiling streaked brilliant orange by the twin suns with the mountains stretching endlessly before him. A cool breeze brushed at his face, carrying the scents of home, the sounds of birds chirping. He smiled nostalgically as he closed his eyes for a moment, patting the wall.

"You always know exactly what I need, eh? Thanks, old girl," he said aloud, feeling the vibrating hum of the floors under his feet. He chuckled and strolled over to his closet, pulling it open. "Let's see what you have for my new look, then." He reached in and raised his eyebrows, but he'd never doubted her before—he wasn't going to start now.

He quickly pulled off his burned and tattered shirt, exchanging it for the black button-up instead. He switched to the similar dark trousers and pulled on the long overcoat, then knotted the dark blue scarf around his neck. TARDIS blue—he smiled. A little piece of her to carry with him, always. How thoughtful. When he was fully dressed in the ensemble, he turned to look in the mirror, to see himself.

His reflection startled him. He looked so…_sharp._ Sharp eyes, shifting in color based on the lighting, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes a strange in-between color. His last eyes had always had a slight playfully mischievous look to them, promising trouble and adventure. Now they were cold and glittered with intelligence, analytical. It frightened him, he wondered if he was really staring at himself. Experimentally, he lifted his hand. So did the person in the mirror, mimicking as he touched the sharp bones that stuck out of his pale face. He was so thin, and much taller than he was used to. And his hair…S_till not ginger,_ he noted with regret, studying his dark curls with a sigh.

He ran a hair through his curls, watching in fascination as they bounced and stuck up funny before settling back into place. When he grew bored of this, he made to leave. That was when he noticed it, sitting in his pocket, ticking against his chest like a third, irregular heartbeat. He frowned and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the fob watch. As soon as he saw what he held in his hands, he dropped it as though it had burned him, shaking his head vehemently.

_No. _He had sworn to himself he would never do that again, not if there was any other option. His being human hadn't done anything to help people. In fact, it had wound up with a lot of people dead and more wounded, and he had almost lost himself. Not to mention the process was _painful._ Worse than regeneration, worse than being shot by a Dalek, worse than the time he had taken the Time Vortex energy from Rose into himself and the entire universe had burned inside him. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

The TARDIS' voice whispered in his head, as she would do every now and then. _This is your last life, and your others have been so short. You promised me forever. You're too reckless to keep that promise, but you can buy yourself, buy us, some more time if you lay low for a while._ She was sad and worried. He sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing one spot gently as he murmured to her.

"Come on, old girl, I can handle myself. And being human just means time apart, which never ends well for us, remember? This—" He nudged the watch with his foot distastefully. "—is not the answer to our problem."

He could tell she was unhappy, she didn't like it. But she rumbled under his hand, almost like a sigh, and he knew she would listen. He took the watch and shoved it under his bed where he wouldn't have to look at it, patted the wall one more time, and strode back to the main room, ready for his next adventure, wondering where this new body would take him.

When he came back, Clara was perched in a hammock with her arms crossed, glaring sullenly at the TARDIS mainframe. He frowned. "Did you two have another argument? I told you to play nice." He looked almost accusingly at the console. "Are you being mean again?"

"No, Doctor, it's fine. We didn't argue," Clara interrupted, looking down and fidgeting with her sleeve. The Doctor frowned, wondering why she was lying to him, what she was hiding. The way her eyes flitted to his and away quickly suggested it was something about him, but he couldn't think what she would have to hide from him. His frown deepened as he studied her.

She fidgeted again. "Doctor, would you kindly not stare at me like some sort of lab specimen?"

"Only if you'll tell me what you're hiding," he retorted, eyes narrowing at her. Clara looked away again, shaking her head and giving a very forced laugh.

"I'm not hiding anything. Don't worry, Doctor."

He frowned at her. "The very action of you telling me I shouldn't worry suggests that there is something I need to worry about."

"Well there's not, so don't," she said shortly, finally meeting his eyes. Her own were carefully blank of any emotion besides her obvious irritation at him, which was wrong. He'd seen those eyes smiling, and crying, and laughing, and screaming. In them he had read fear, anger, confusion, hurt, shock, delight—a thousand stories were in those eyes, a thousand lifetimes. They were an open book. And now…nothing? She was working far too hard to keep something from him, and it bothered him that he couldn't figure out what.

"Clara, don't lie to me. It's insulting to my intelligence."

She gave a derisive snort. "If you're so intelligent, figure it out for yourself."

His eyes narrowed at her scathing tone. "I will."

She stood abruptly. "I'm going to my room—I'm not up for any more excitement tonight." She strode away angrily, and when she was gone, the Doctor's irritation faded, leaving him feeling drained and confused.

He ran his fingers lightly over the various switches and levers on the console, thinking hard.

Clara was lying to him, hiding something, he was certain of it. He didn't yet know what, and clearly she didn't want him to. But that only intrigued him and made him want to know even more badly. He sighed and drummed his fingers, but stopped quickly because the tapping—_tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap_—dredged up old memories he didn't want to go into. He shut his eyes, trying not to see the fire, trying not to hear the screams or the ever-constant sound of drums beating rhythmically. He focused on Clara to distract himself.

He didn't know what her secret was. But he was determined to find out.


	3. Truce

**Chapter 3—Truce**

_**Clara**_

She hurried down the hall and turned to the left, pushing open the warm brown maple door with a sigh. She didn't like keeping things from the Doctor. He was clever, and her best friend. But this new Doctor—he unsettled her somewhat. The way he looked at her, like a puzzle—no, that was the way _her_ Doctor, the last one, had looked at her. _This _Doctor looked at her more like a lab specimen he was dying to dissect to discover how it worked. He looked colder and harsher and…and it kind of frightened her.

But she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't hurt him just because he had changed. She would never be able to forgive herself if she did that.

To herself she could admit that she _was_ afraid, though. Afraid not only of the Doctor, but _for_ the Doctor, for his life. This was his last body—he was going to die, and he seemed to run through his regenerations. She couldn't lose him. She just…couldn't. She needed the Doctor. She couldn't go back to normal life after life with him—it was unthinkable! Well, visiting occasionally—sure that was fine. But being _stuck _there? She was repelled by the thought.

There had to be a way to save him.

Right?

He was bound to figure out what was bothering her soon. If he hadn't already. She cringed at the thought and shook her head. He couldn't possibly know. He was clever but, as he himself had said more than once, he was incredibly thick sometimes.

_But he also always gets there eventually,_ her mind whispered to her.

_Shut up,_ she told it irritably. Then she frowned: Talking to herself. Not a good sign. She was losing it for sure now.

She sighed heavily, shutting the door softly behind her. Her room was simple, a basic earth bedroom with a bed, a desk, and a closet. There was a full-body mirror propped up next to the desk that she loved because it seemed so classic and antique, it was truly beautiful. The closet was smaller outside, of course, because the TARDIS loved to show off and remind Clara of her insignificance. It wasn't too tidy, with clothes scattered helter-skelter and pictures from their various adventures strewn across the desk, waiting for her to find a home for them, but to her that just gave it a comfortable, homey feel.

She sighed again as she dropped on her bed, crooking an arm over her eyes.

"Right. Okay. So, I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen for once," she said aloud. She always felt awkward and silly speaking to the TARDIS. It didn't come to her as naturally as it did for him. Then again, she hadn't been doing it for two thousand years, so that probably made sense. Clara shook her head, telling herself to focus, opening her eyes with a sigh.

A message appeared in cursive on the mirror by her desk. She tilted her head to look at it.

_Why should I listen to a single word you have to say to me? –Sexy_

Clara felt her jaw tighten. The TARDIS also loved to shove that little pet name in her face frequently, and it always rankled. "Because," she spoke to the message tensely, "you and I have a common goal. We both want to save the Doctor."

_I have tried to do so many times. What makes you think you could do better than I?  
_

"Because I have _succeeded_ many times, throughout his timeline I have saved his life time and time again. It's only because of me that he even chose you," she said smugly.

The TARDIS chose not to reply to this, but she could sense its annoyance.

And its sadness. She sighed.

"Look. This animosity between us…it's not helping him. I just want to offer a truce, an alliance. If we work together, we could save the Doctor." Her heart pumped at the words. _Save the Doctor. Save the Doctor._ She heard the words constantly in her head now, like a mantra, always there in the back of her mind. It's what she was born to do, it's what she always did. She was the impossible girl, and she was born to save the Doctor. _I have to save him,_ she thought to herself, closing her eyes.

When she opened them again, the cursive was fading. She barely caught the message.

_A truce, then._

Clara nodded in relief and sat up, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knees, propping her chin in her hands. "I know you have an idea. You know how we could save him."

_What makes you so sure?_

"Because you're the TARDIS. The whole of the universe stored in a convenient little blue box. Biggest brain ever, clever and innovative. If you don't have a single idea, then I'm a purple pickled toad." Clara rolled her eyes.

_Fair point. I do have something, but the Doctor has already rejected it._

"What do you propose? Tell me. I might be able to help convince him."

_Why should he listen to you if he won't listen to me?_

"Do we really have to go through this again?" Clara sighed exasperatedly, pointing a finger at herself. "Impossible girl. Saved his life. _Multiple times._ Besides, he loves me." Feeling her face turn red, Clara hastened to add, "As a friend, I mean. It's not like what he had with Professor Song. We're just best friends." She sincerely hoped the TARDIS didn't know her well enough to discern her lies as easily as the Doctor could.

She and the Doctor had an odd relationship. Clara admired the Doctor. He dragged her around, he showed her the universe, he brought her on adventures wild beyond her dizziest daydreams. They ran, they laughed, they hugged, they cried, they held hands, and—a precious few times—they had even kissed. _Companion,_ he called her. So many different meanings, and she wasn't sure which one he intended with it. She often wondered why he had even chosen her to run with him. She wasn't especially pretty or clever. She _was_ a bit bold, but that usually just brought them trouble, so she didn't think that was the reason. At times she wondered if he even _had_ a reason for choosing her, or if he was just desperate and lonely and asked the first person he saw on the street to come away in his snog box.

_"I never know why. I only know who,"_ he had told her when he asked her to come away with him. Maybe that should be enough to satisfy her, but she still wondered sometimes.

And then, there were times she caught him looking at her. Just looking, when he thought she wouldn't notice. There was something in his eyes…it was a bit sad, a bit happy, and a bit of something she couldn't quite interpret as anything other than _intense._ She saw a lot of moods on the Doctor.

She'd seen him angry, and his anger was terrifying and brilliant, burning hotter than a thousand suns.

She'd seen him happy, where he would laugh and grab her hands and drag her around the room in an attempt to dance until they were both laughing and stumbling like intoxicated people in a club, stumbling and doubled over, faces flushed and eyes bright.

She'd seen him sad—he always seemed a little bit sad. Even when he was smiling and laughing, there was something in his eyes…something not _broken,_ exactly...but more like breaking. He was hurting, always. He carried around so much guilt and sadness and pain that at times she was impressed that he even found the strength and will to get out of bed and face the universe that had caused so much pain in his hearts.

But there wasn't any mood she'd ever seen him in made her feel the same as that _look_ did. It sent shivers up her spine and had her praying desperately that she wasn't blushing as badly as she felt she was.

She always pretended not to notice these looks, because as soon as she turned to meet his eyes, the intensity was gone and he was pretending it had never happened.

Clara had to wonder what those looks meant. But she was distracted again by the next message from the TARDIS.

_Well I'm his Sexy girl. He never doubts me, never leaves me. We've been together almost all of his life. _This only served to irritate Clara. Now the TARDIS was being just plain petulant and downright irritating. She was in no mood to deal with this kind of thing._  
_

"Do you really want to make this into a competition? This is beside the point! _Tell me how we can save the Doctor,"_ Clara said exasperatedly.

There was a deep groaning noise from the walls, the sound Clara usually associated with a sigh. _Very well. Try to keep up._

She outlined her idea about the Doctor lying low as a human for a while, explaining to Clara how it would work, and as she listened, Clara couldn't quite help thinking that this plan they were concocting was hardly fool-proof.

It was, however, the best chance that they had. She had to take it. For the Doctor, she would do it. He may have changed—he was different, not quite as soft and warm and cuddly-looking. And yes, that might unsettle her a bit. Quite a big bit, actually, but that was all beside the point.

He might not be _her _Doctor anymore, but that didn't change a single thing. He was still _the _Doctor, and for the Doctor, she would do anything.

"Let's do it," she said grimly.

* * *

**[A/N: Again, snow day so I had time to write all this. Hope you guys like it. Happy Christmas! How did I do with telling it from Clara's POV? Did I suck? Did I do really well? Did you like the Sexy-Clara interaction? Did you guys catch what Clara's secret was? Leave a review to let me know, please! Keep it real, guys.]**

**[By the way, I discovered the most horrible yet epic parody ever and am sharing it with you in the spirit of Christmas. It's to the tune of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" and the title is "Sherlock Holmes Jumped Off Of a Building". Here's the chorus:**

_**'Sherlock Holmes jumped off of a building**_

_**Said "Goodbye John" and tried to deceive**_

_**You can say Moriarty wasn't real**_

_**But as for me and Watson**_

_**We believe!'**_

**If that didn't make you cry, you're not a proper Sherlockian fangirl. Happy Christmas, everyone! See you all on the next update! PUT WORDS IN THE LITTLE BOX DOWN THERE AND WRAP IT IN A BOW FOR ME!]**

**Love always,**

—**Makenna**


	4. Lonely Hearts

**[A/N: For those of you who didn't get it in the last chapter, just a clarification: Clara's secret she's hiding from the Doctor is that she's frightened and unsettled by his new regeneration but she doesn't want him to know because she thinks that would hurt him, and she would hate herself if she did something to hurt the Doctor. Any further questions, message me and I'd be happy to explain! :) Now, on with the chapter. Allons-y! Wait...no...WRONG DOCTOR! Geronimo! Yeah, that's better. GERONIMO!]  
**

* * *

**Chapter Four—Lonely Hearts**

_**Doctor**_

He couldn't sleep. He was tired but his mind wouldn't shut down, he kept noticing things and getting distracted and his whole being seemed to be vibrating with a sense of _awareness_ that wouldn't go away. After a while he threw the covers off and sat up with a sigh, pulling on a robe and wandering the halls restlessly. He ran his hand along the walls, listening to the rhythmic hum and buzz of the TARDIS, almost as though she were snoring. He chuckled at the thought and patted the wall affectionately.

He didn't pay attention to where he was going. He just let his feet carry him where they wished as his mind wandered. So when he found himself outside Clara's door, his hand gripping the handle, he was a bit startled. Why on Gallifrey was he _here,_ of all places? What could he possibly want from Clara in the middle of the night?

What he always wanted, he supposed: companionship. He was bored and restless, and he couldn't think of a better way to remedy that condition than to hear her voice, to be near her. But she usually wasn't happy when she first woke up—did he really want her growling and grumbling at him in the middle of the night? He sighed and pulled his hand away from the door handle, tapping it against his leg restlessly, indecisively.

After a moment he turned away from the door, taking a series of right turns, a left, and going down the hall to the big wooden door with the lion-head shaped brass handles. He tugged them open and stepped into his library, wandering among the shelves. He had often found solace in here on late nights, a wandering soul finding peace among other lost souls. Sometimes it was nice to read about others' adventures instead of going off on one of his own. Much as most people wouldn't believe it, he _did_ occasionally tire of running and being in near-constant danger.

Once in a blue moon, Clara would make a cup of tea and join him in the library. He would sit in his favorite chair, she would lie on the couch, and he would read to her. He enjoyed it, but sometimes it also made him sad because it reminded him of his last day with the Ponds. But being with Clara, the ache of losing his best friends became...not less, not better. But bearable. Yes, that was the word. She was good at distracting him. She always seemed to know when he needed her the most and would find a way of pulling him out of his thoughts and making him laugh so he wouldn't feel quite so sad. She couldn't fix everything. He knew that, and she knew that. But she did what she could, and that was more than enough for him.

He sighed wearily, climbing onto his favorite chair, sitting on the back with his feet on the cushion, stretching out his hand to grab a random book from the shelf. He let it fall open and tried to read, but found he couldn't focus on the words. His mind was buzzing, racing, conjuring a million new thoughts that distracted him and pulled at his attention.

He shook his head as though the motion could physically shake away the distractions and allow him to focus. But when he looked at the book, he grew bored because the ending was obvious, the dialogue poor, and the plot rather dull. He shut it with a frustrated sigh and got up, stretching his lanky arms above his head until he heard the satisfying _pop!_ of his bones shifting.

He wandered among the shelves again for a little while, wishing Clara were by his side. Wishing to hear her soft breaths, to feel her small hand slipping into his, to see the laughter in her eyes.

The library wasn't helping. He didn't know why he was here. He shoved the doors open and left, striding aimlessly through the halls. When he came across a door he wasn't familiar with, he paused. He cracked it open—it was practically empty. All he saw was a violin and bow resting on a stand. He started to close the door with a sigh. Then he changed his mind. He left the door hanging open behind as he strode in and picked up the instrument, plucking the strings experimentally. He winced at the sound, tightening the strings until it wasn't so discordant. Then he picked up the bow and ran it across the strings. He closed his eyes and played a series of notes, and found the action oddly soothing. He did it again, experimentally. Playing the music seemed to help calm his mind, to help him not think so much so the buzz of activity in his brain became less overwhelming and he could organize his thoughts more cohesively.

He closed his eyes and started just playing. He didn't know any specific songs, so he just let the bow roam across the strings, creating a strange, discombobulated tune that resonated richly against the walls. He wasn't sure how long he had been playing, or how long she had been there, before she finally spoke.

"That's a strange piece," Clara said behind him. He jumped and turned to look at her, the bow and violin falling to his sides, his eyes widening a fraction. She was leaning against the door frame, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips, her arms crossed lightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you—I heard the music and I came to investigate. But please, don't stop," she urged with a smile. "I didn't say I didn't like it, just that it was strange. What was it?"

"It wasn't a piece—I was just...playing," he muttered, his face heating slightly. She laughed softly.

"I see. I never knew you could play the violin."

"Two thousand years, I've been around a bit. I can do a lot of things you probably haven't guessed." He rolled his eyes.

She looked intrigued. "Oh really? Like what?"

He shrugged. "Name something."

She looked thoughtful. "Can you bake? Dance? Sew? Play rugby?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes, no, and yes."

"Really? Show me!"

He chuckled, amused by her enthusiasm. "Right now?"

"Why not?" she challenged, raising her eyebrows. "Unless you made all of it up and can't _actually_ do any of those things."

He rolled his eyes again. "Fine. I'll make us a midnight snack." He gingerly set the violin down on the stand and strode out, gesturing with his hand. "Come along, Clara." He heard her light footsteps behind him, and a slight smile tugged at his lips as he strode into the kitchen. He turned to face her, leaning back on the counter. "What should I make? What sounds good for my impossible girl? And don't say soufflé," he chuckled.

She leaned her elbow on the counter next to him and propped her chin in her hand, looking up at him as she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm…can you bake chocolate chip cookies?"

The Doctor snorted, offended. "Easily!" And with that, he swept about the kitchen, his robe swishing behind him as he began snatching ingredients from the pantry, preheating the oven as he mixed the dry ingredients in a bowl. Clara sat on the counter, watching him curiously. She occasionally reached out to sample the dough. After a moment he slapped her hand lightly. "Oi! Not after you licked your fingers," he scolded, pulling the bowl away from her. She rolled her eyes.

"We're the only two who will be eating them, so I don't see how it matters," she said, taking another sample. He smacked her hand again.

"It matters because it's unsanitary," he told her, setting lumps of dough on a tray and sliding it into the oven. "What should we do for ten minutes while those bake?"

Clara slid off the counter with a grin. "You said you could dance. Show me." She held out her hand to him. He hoped he wasn't blushing as he accepted it, pulling her close and placing his free hand on her waist. He didn't have music, so he led her around to the beat of his hearts, and she followed. He was grateful when he didn't step on her toes. At one point he decided to be spontaneous and he spun her around, then lowered her into a dip. She yelped and gripped his hand and shoulder tight, her eyes widening.

He chuckled. "Relax, Clara. I won't drop you—just trust me." He grinned when her shoulders relaxed.

"I trust you," she murmured, looking up at him. He could see her pupils were dilated slightly, and he could see her pulse beating in her throat—it was faster than usual. This set his own hearts speeding up, and he wasn't quite sure why. He found himself staring into her eyes, and she was staring back. She was soft and small and warm, and she smelled like flowers…was she wearing perfume? When did she start wearing perfume? It was a light, heady scent he found rather pleasant.

She was short and bossy and she had a funny nose, but he found he didn't mind those all that much.

She wasn't pretty by traditional standards, but he didn't like conventionally pretty girls.

He liked clever, brave girls who could run with him and challenge him and be his companion and best mate when he needed them.

He liked girls whose actions he couldn't predict, who always surprised and puzzled him.

And here was one such girl right in front of him.

Times like this, he always seemed to think of River, and then he always felt guilty. She was his wife…but she was dead. Did that make this okay, him looking at other girls? Then again, it's not like they had never kissed other people, even when they were married. They didn't have a traditional marriage, really. But they had always been faithful to each other.

He didn't know how that applied to this situation, though, and trying to figure it out just confused him and gave him a headache. He pulled Clara upright and let go of her, clearing his throat. "See?" he said, somewhat awkwardly, "I told you I can dance."

"I do see. You're a good dancer, Doctor," she told him. As she nodded, something flashed in her eyes. Disappointment? Frustration? It was there and gone so fast, he couldn't identify for sure what it was. All he was certain of was that it wasn't something happy. He sighed as the oven dinged. He pulled the tray out of the oven, then dropped the tray with a loud swear as the hot metal scalded his fingertips.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Clara asked, seemingly alarmed. Probably by his swearing—it wasn't usually a habit of his to use profanity in the presence of a lady. He gritted his teeth.

"I'm fine, just burned my hand," he muttered, embarrassed by his idiocy. She laughed lightly.

"Let me see," she said, taking his hand and turning it over. She examined his hand carefully, studying the bright pink skin. "You're lucky, it's just a surface wound. Run it under some cold water and maybe put a bandage over it, you'll be fine in a few days."

"Dull," he said, frowning at his hand.

"What is?" she inquired, dragging his hand to the sink and turning the faucet on. He sighed as the cool water soothed his heated skin.

"Healing, the _human_ way. The mundane way," he explained. "Usually I could just use a dash regen energy to fix it…" His voice died, and he frowned. Thinking about his depleted regeneration energy…it frightened and depressed him. He felt so empty without it, like a vital piece of him was missing. He shook his head and found Clara frowning at him in concern. "What?"

"You were off in your own little world again," she murmured. "You've been doing that a lot lately, Doctor. I'm worried about you." She looked down at his hand at the last part, frowning. He frowned and ducked down a bit, trying to look into her eyes, but she stubbornly avoided his gaze.

"Clara?"

…

"Clara."

…

"Clara, for gods' sake, _look_ at me," he said in exasperation. She reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his. He held her gaze with his as he slipped his hands around hers, pulling them to his chest, one over either heart. "Feel that?" he whispered, and she nodded. "My hearts are still going strong. I have a good century left in me, at the bare minimum. So don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

She bit her lip. "I know you can, but…Doctor, this is your last life. And even when you're trying to be careful, you always seem to get into trouble, and…and…and I don't want to lose you!" she burst out, looking distraught.

"Hey, don't worry. You won't. You'll be gone long before I will," he said with a sad smile, pulling her into a hug. She fisted her hands over his hearts and buried her face against his chest, breathing slowly in and out.

"You don't know that, Doctor," she whispered, sounding so afraid it broke his hearts. He tightened his arms around her, as though he could somehow protect her from anything that might hurt or frighten her. He wished he could. He would always try, of course. He had promised when he took on this name: _"Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up, never give in. Thus I swear."_ He would go to the ends of the universe to fulfill that promise, and he had done exactly that once or twice. He would do anything to fulfill his promise, to protect Clara and all his friends. He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes, taking comfort from the fact that in this moment, at least, she was safe from harm.

"What would you have me do, Clara?" he murmured back.

"I don't know," she admitted, sounding frustrated. "I could ask you to retire, but you would say no and even if you said yes, you would be miserable and bored and I couldn't do that to you. I could ask you to be more careful, but that never really works out for you. I don't know how to keep you safe."

"Then don't. I'm the Doctor, meaning I do the worrying and protecting. You're just along for the ride."

"I want to help, though," she insisted.

"Well you can't. So don't worry about it. Just let me think and worry about these things. It's my job." He grinned.

She pulled away abruptly. Her eyes were angry and sad and she was clearly very upset.

"You just don't get it," she muttered, crossing her arms and walking towards the door, their evening of proving his skills apparently forgotten.

"Don't get _what_?" he demanded, catching her lightly by the arm.

"If you can't see it, I'm not going to tell you," she said, pulling away. "Figure it out for yourself, _Mr. Clever_." With those acerbic words she left him, alone and confused, watching her slight figure disappear around the corner.

Humans! So _emotional._ He really was growing quite tired of trying to figure out what was going through their heads. And Clara…Clara was the worst of them all. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she pulled a one-eighty on him, leaving him confused and left in the dark.

The one puzzle worth solving and the only puzzle he could never solve.

Frustrated, the Doctor went back to his room, turned off all the lights, and stared at the black space ahead of his eyes until dawn.

* * *

For the next several days, he watched Clara, trying to figure it out. He studied her, watched her face. She looked…unhappy. There really wasn't a better word for it. She wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him. It was like they were invisible to each other.

No, this was worse than that. Because if he were merely invisible, she might at least glance his way, if only accidentally. This was just freezing him out, as though a wall had been built between them. He didn't know how to scale it or tear it down. But he needed to—he needed _her._ He needed to hear her laugh, see her smile, feel her hand slip into his. He needed his best mate, his impossible girl, his companion. He was lonely and miserable without her. He sighed frequently and he rarely slept. He spent most nights awake in the violin room with the door shut, playing melancholy notes to the empty space and wishing he understood humans more.

On one of these nights, he fell asleep in the violin room and slept most of the next day. He was awoken by the sounds of frantic running footsteps and Clara's panicky voice calling out for him. "Doctor, where are you?!" she called. _"Doctor!"_

He sat up sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he opened the door of the violin room. "Clara?" he said around a yawn. Then he felt something crash against him, felt tight arms around his torso, and he was assaulted by the smell of flowers. He stumbled a couple of steps before catching his balance. "Hey, hey—what's wrong?" he asked, slightly alarmed when he saw her wide eyes and the tears streaked down her cheeks. She was trembling faintly against him. What had happened while he was asleep?

"I couldn't find you," she mumbled. "You weren't in your room or anywhere else, you weren't responding when I called your name…you were just gone. I was afraid you had left." She buried her face in his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, wrapping his arms around her, savoring the feeling of being close to her again after days of lonely isolation. "I wouldn't just leave you." _There would at least have been a note,_ he thought silently, but he didn't say that because he knew that wouldn't be any comfort to her. In fact she would probably slap him if he told her that, and he had been slapped quite enough for his lifetimes, thank you very much.

"I was just afraid…" she murmured, brushing absently at her eyes as though only just realizing she had been crying.

"I'll stay in my room at night from now on," he said, making a mental note to move the violin to his room when he had the chance.

She nodded and pulled away. He felt her absence as soon as she pulled away from him. It made his hearts ache with forlornness and he felt so alone, he couldn't stand it. He reached out instinctively, like a drowning man reaches for a floatation device, slipping his hand around hers, and—ignoring the startled look she gave him—pulled her to the TARDIS console room, starting to pull levers and push buttons. He needed Clara, needed to be with her, hear her laugh, see her smile. He needed _her, _more than he needed oxygen or gravity or anything except perhaps the TARDIS.

"Where are we going?" she asked tentatively.

"Somewhere fun," he replied, smirking at her wary look. "After the last several days, we need an adventure, something fun and crazy. Do you trust me?"

She hesitated only a moment before sighing and nodding. "I trust you."

"Good. We're off, then." He hit a final switch and threw them into the adventure that almost ended his final regeneration.

* * *

**[A/N: So I'm still planning out his adventure and the danger posed to him. I sort of have a general idea but I would love a plotting buddy. If anyone's interested, message me and you get the honor of helping me plan the Doctor's adventure and how sadistic we get to be. :) But I hope you enjoyed this chapter and reading about the Doctor's angst and feels. Do you think I'm portraying him accurately? Am I making him too human? Not human enough? I love feedback and criticism. **

**Shout-outs and my love to the following people for reviewing:**

**1) Doctor Frostybuscus  
2) neal4grissom  
3) Nataly SkyPot  
4) in a crown**

**They are my only reviewers so far and therefore this chapter is dedicated to them. Thanks, guys! Keep it real and I'll update when I'm ready! :) ]**

**Love always,**

**Makenna**


	5. Abducted

**[A/N: Special shout-out to two people for this chapter and the next. First to my best friend Alyssa for giving me the sort of general idea of this chapter and secondly to my friend Nona for helping me with the details. You guys rock, and it's great to have people to bounce my ideas off of and go through the editing process with me. This chapter is for you, guys! I love you so much!] **

* * *

**Chapter Five—Abducted**

_**Clara**_

_THUD._

They landed hard—it felt like they had crashed. Clara fell back from the console because she wasn't holding on hard enough, and she and the Doctor both slammed hard into the ground. Clara yelped, sure she was going to have bruises, but he just laughed and got up. Clara followed suit, rubbing her backside a bit sourly.

_You did that on purpose,_ she thought crossly at the TARDIS, knowing it would hear her. It didn't respond, of course. Rarely did when the Doctor was watching them. Clara sighed.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Littleton, Colorado. Quaint little place. Just outside a graveyard," he told her with a grin. Clara frowned.

"Why are we outside a graveyard? You said we were going to do something _fun._"

"We are! I've heard this place is riddled with ghosts. We're going to be—"

"Don't say it!" she cut off, trying to scowl; but she found she could barely contain a grin.

"—ghost busters," he continued blithely, smirking at her. She rolled her eyes and tried not to blush when he grabbed her hand, dragging her outside. "Just come on," he told her. He grabbed his coat and scarf and pulled them on as he went. Clara trotted behind him, thinking that the coat and scarf suited him rather well.

When they stepped outside it was snowy and everything was a shade of white or grey. White snow, grey headstones, grey-white fog…Clara shivered as the cold fog drifted against her bare legs, wishing she had put on trousers instead of a dress. The Doctor grinned at her, looking excited.

"Spooky, eh? Gives you that chills-up-your-spine sensation." He shoved his hands in his pockets and set off at a leisurely stroll and Clara scrambled to keep up with him, not wanting to lose him in this fog. She glanced over her shoulder, and already she could barely make out the blue box behind them.

"How will we find our way back?" she asked anxiously, reaching for the Doctor's hand instinctively. He wrapped his palm around hers but his fingers were chilled and not as warm as they used to be. She shivered again, goose bumps prickling along her arms.

"I'll be able to find her. Always can," he said, not seeming worried as he looked around.

Something ahead of them moved in the fog. Clara shied closer to the Doctor as the hazy dark figure ran away. The Doctor tore his hand free and gave chase. Clara's jaw dropped—he had never left her behind before when there was danger. She chased after him, though, planning to slap him later for abandoning her like that.

When she caught up to him he was crouched, studying a thin, smoking trail in the snow. Clara scowled and stood by him, crossing her arms, but he didn't even seem to notice her. He was absorbed with the trail. Oh, he was _so_ getting a good slap for that.

"Clara, come here. What would you say this is?" he murmured. Clara scowled but she knelt by him, her knees crunching the snow quietly and she shivered yet again. She frowned at the Doctor. His last regeneration would've offered his jacket. This one didn't seem to be aware of social propriety or even aware of her discomfort, aware of her. Did she even matter to him anymore? Had she ever?

She shook her head with a sigh, her heart aching, and looked at the thin line emitting grey smoke. She reached out to touch it and jerked her hand back with a hiss, her fingertips stinging and bright red. The stinging faded after a moment and she felt numb. Not just physically—inside, like everything inside her had been frozen and ruined. For just a moment nothing mattered, nothing was alright, nothing was worth doing. She was…empty.

Then she felt cold hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her violently; heard a frantic, sharp voice saying her name, over and over; saw wide, panicked eyes the pale green color of frosted-over grass they were kneeling on.

Doctor…the Doctor. That was the Doctor. He sounded worried…he was worried about her.

The Doctor mattered.

Clara shook herself and muttered, "I'm fine, Doctor…I'm fine." It was a lie. She wasn't fine. But he needed her to be fine. He needed her…the Doctor needed her to be fine. So she would try to be fine. For him. For the Doctor. Anything for the Doctor…

She shook herself again and the Doctor put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to her feet and leading her away from the smoking line. She felt slightly better every step they took farther from that trail. She leaned into the Doctor's warmth, closing her eyes. But she opened them again almost immediately because she needed to see him—he kept her grounded and kept the black despair at bay. He would make it alright if she kept her eyes on him. She pulled in a deep, shuddering breath that sounded perilously close to a sob. She was comforted, though, when the Doctor squeezed her shoulders.

"Clara," he said, turning to face her, his eyes intense as they studied hers. She wondered what he saw there: despair? Hopelessness? Perhaps just emptiness. "I need you to tell me what you are thinking. And feeling. Tell me as clearly and concisely as you can, do you understand?"

Clara nodded. "I'm thinking…that you matter. Nothing else. Nothing matters. I feel…empty. Not quite hollow. There's a heart and a brain and plenty of functioning organs. But I don't…_feel,_" she said dully. He frowned at her and his hands tightened on her shoulders until it was almost painful, but she didn't mind. The pain meant contact—meant he was touching her. Right now that was all that was allowing her to maintain a grip on her sanity.

"Forgive me for this," he murmured. She opened her mouth, but before she could ask he slid his hands up from her shoulders to her face and leaned in and down, pressing his mouth against hers.

Every synapse in Clara's being short-circuited and for a moment she just _stopped._ Didn't think, didn't breathe, didn't emote, didn't do anything but register the fact that the Doctor was kissing her.

Then, every nerve came alive all at once and she was flooded with thoughts and feelings and sensations and she was stunned that she didn't spontaneously combust from the sheer magnitude of it all.

His lips were soft and warm, a sharp contrast to his cool, hard body. They moved against hers and gently coaxed a response from her mouth, asking where his hands and body almost demanded. Clara shivered again.

This close, with both of their eyes wide open, Clara could see a thousand colors dancing in his eyes, a million shades of blue and green and even little flecks of gold.

Her hands were curled on his chest and she could feel his hearts. They were beating a hair faster than usual.

_Oh god he's _kissing_ me!_

_Make him stop—we shouldn't be doing this—we'll both end up getting hurt. This is a bad idea._

_Please, dear god, this is so fantastic. I never want him to stop! Doctor, my Doctor…_

_I love you._

When the last thought snapped into place she finally found the will to pull away and she did, using her hands on his chest to push lightly so she had some space. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks were warm, and she was embarrassed to find her breathing and her pulse racing double-time.

"Sorry about that," he said, letting go of her and running a hand through his curls. "I needed to snap you out of it. Did it work?"

Clara nodded, clearing her throat. "It worked…quite well. What _was_ that?" she added, casting a wary glance at the still-smoking line and shuddering as she remembered the pain and desolation touching it had caused within her.

"Something not-human," he murmured with a far-away look in his eyes. He strode back over to the trail and studied it closely, face intent. Clara trailed behind him, being cautious not to touch it, having no desire to repeat that experience. The hopelessness, that is. The kiss…she wouldn't mind being kissed like that again. She blushed at the thought and this time she was grateful that he didn't seem aware of her so he didn't ask her why she was blushing.

"Well if it's _not_ human, do you know what it _is_? Have we found our ghost?" she asked, hesitantly stepping closer to look over his shoulder. His fingers hovered over the trail, tracing it without touching it. Clara watched anxiously, not wanting him to go through the same thing she just had.

"I have a theory," he said, dusting off his hands and standing. "I need more conclusive evidence before I want to rely on it. Come along, Clara," he said, striding off abruptly. Clara scrambled after him, hurrying to keep up with his long legs.

"Dare I ask where we are going?" she asked warily.

He smirked at her. "Use your eyes and guess." He frowned. "No, wait, I take that back. Don't guess. Gather information and form a conclusion. Deduce. Yes, I like that word rather a lot. Deduce, then, Clara, where you think we are going." He walked even faster, and Clara had to jog to keep up with him now, trying not to slip on the snow.

"Why can't you just _tell_ me?" she asked exasperatedly, huffing slightly from exertion.

"Several reasons."

"Name some."

"It wouldn't be any fun. A second opinion is always valuable to an investigation. I like watching you think. And I want to see if you can figure it out. Now shut up and deduce already," he told her, rolling his eyes. She scowled at him for a moment before resignedly turning her gaze to the path that they were taking.

She noticed it almost right away and sucked in a shocked breath, eyes widening incredulously as they snapped back to the Doctor. He chuckled, knowing she knew, but he let her say it anyways.

"We're following the monster's trail. Aren't we?"

"Indeed we are, Clara. We're following the smoky trail to find the monster."

"For God's sake,_ why_?" Clara didn't want to sound so pathetic and afraid, but she couldn't help it. If only touching the trail of that _creature_ could have such a tremendous effect on her, she literally shuddered to think of how the real thing would impact her.

"How else would we find and stop it?" he asked, giving her a perplexed look, like the answer should be obvious. And it was, in a way. That was what the Doctor did: find problems, find danger, and fix it, remove the risk. She ought to have been expecting this when he said "something fun". What else would be fun for him?

For the next half-hour or so, they walked through the fog and as they walked, it got thicker. Colder. Clara had that feeling you get when you feel like someone is watching you, a prickly sensation on the back of your neck that caused chills down your spine and an increase of your heart rate. She shied closer to the Doctor, feeling jumpy. He seemed relaxed. Downright delighted, actually, the more and more uncomfortable the situation became.

She couldn't stand to watch the fog—she kept seeing shifting figures that turned out to be a crow, or a tree, or a statue on top of a grave. She was driving herself insane with paranoia. So instead she watched the Doctor, watched his eyes roam the blank grey expanse ahead of them. Watched as his eyes narrowed and then relaxed.

Because she was watching him, she never saw it coming.

One moment he was calm and relaxed, and her hand was tucked into his arm, more for her sake than his. Then she felt a cold grip on her upper arm, wrenching her away from the Doctor. The grip was chilly but it also burned like acid seeping into her pores.

"Doctor!" she shrieked, kicking her feet as tears pricked her eyes.

"Clara!" he cried, but his voice already sounded far-off. Much farther than should be possible in the few seconds they had been separated. She opened her mouth to scream for him again, but the grip on her arm tightened and a hand wrapped around her mouth. She thrashed and kicked, tears of pain and desperation leaking down her cheeks. But she felt weak and tired and so afraid…drained like a cell phone someone had forgotten to charge after using it all day. She was running on empty. Still she struggled, because she wasn't one to give up. She kicked her feet and waved her arms, ignoring the bite and sting of the acidic grip.

She didn't see the fist. She only felt the grip on her arm release. Before this had even fully registered, there was a sensation of blinding pain just above her left temple. It lasted only an instant, however, before everything faded into grey oblivion.

* * *

**[A/N: Ah, cliff-hangers. The lovely tool of any good writer. I feel like such a sadist right now. Leave a review with comments and thoughts, love or hate or "meh" or feels or angst or any reaction whatsoever—I wanna hear it from you. Tell me what this chapter inspired within you. I already know how I'm going to have the rest of this adventure play out, so I'll probably update again soon so you won't have to wait too long for the rest of the adventure. Keep it real and happy Christmas!]**

—**Makenna**


	6. Alone

**Chapter Six—Alone**

_**Clara**_

When she awoke, everything hurt. Not just physically. No, the physical pain was finite, insignificant compared to the agony _inside_ of her. Inside everything was desolate and aching, a sharp ache that was an almost tangible sensation. She felt tears sting her eyes and she closed them until she was sure they wouldn't spill over.

When she was had once again reigned in control, she opened her eyes and looked around. No Doctor. That was…bad. She was alone in a strange place with no sign of help. She couldn't…she needed…oh, god, she couldn't _do_ this! She needed the Doctor. Her heart rate started to escalate and she couldn't breathe around the choking fear constricting her lungs.

_No. No panic attacks. Escape. That was what important. Focus on escaping. The Doctor will be doing what he can, but you can't leave it all up to him, _Clara told herself.

Okay. Right. So. First things first—always gather as much information as possible about your situation. That was the first step in escaping.

She found that with some effort she could sit up, but her hands were bound behind her back and there were chains around her ankles. She ignored that for now, focusing on finding more information about her surroundings.

It was dark. She could barely see farther than a few feet away in any direction. However if she squinted, she could just make out a large rectangular dark shape a few feet in front of her, but she had no clue as to what it was. And it was _cold._ She was shivering and the ground was hard and uncomfortable. When she turned her head, the dull throb increased to a sharp stabbing pain and she groaned quietly as gray dots swam across her vision.

_Note to self: don't move head if it can be avoided,_ she thought. She tried to hold still as she continued looking around. If she shifted her hips she could lean one way or the other and as she did so, she fell against the wall. It was rough and hard. It felt like concrete. She didn't see any bars so she wasn't in a cell. A cold concrete room.

Okay. Okay. Think, Clara. Where could you be? Look at the facts. Use your eyes and your brain.

Clara closed her eyes again and tried to think. When she figured it out, when it clicked, she felt cold inside, as though the chill had crept beneath her skin and sunk into her soul.

They had been in a graveyard when she was attacked. Sometimes in graveyards, they had little structures like this. _Tombs._ She was alone, trapped and tied up, _in a tomb._ Oh, god…

She started to panic again. She felt the tears and this time she could do nothing to stop them. They came hot and fast and fell like liquid fire down her cold cheeks as she gasped for air that didn't seem to be there.

"Doctor," she said, her voice coming out as a choked whisper. "Doctor, where are you? I need you!"

Instead of the reassuring whirring of a sonic screwdriver or the familiar _whoosh-wheeze_ of the TARDIS, however, she heard a slithering, swishing sound, like a snake gliding across dead leaves. She whipped her head around, ignoring the sharp pang as her injured skull protested, and frantically searched for the source of the sound.

_Something was coming._

She heard a rough grating sound just before a silvery-white rectangle outlined the wall directly across from her. The door opened and a shadowy figure stepped into the rectangle of light. She barely caught a glimpse of it before it entered the tomb and shut the door behind it with a rough grating sound as the concrete rubbed against itself, effectively sealing them in darkness, but a glimpse was more than enough.

Its cloak was gray and tattered, looking rotted and like it should be in the rubbish bin. Where its face should have been, there was only a black void under its hood. And white vapor twisted and swirled from under bottom of its cloak like mist. She could hear each breath it took because it made a sucking noise like an air vacuum, only instead of sucking away oxygen it seemed to be absorbing anything warm or happy or pleasant with a wheezing, slightly echo-y draining noise. Clara shuddered in terror, cringing away from the sound. Whatever the dark figure was, she didn't want it coming near her.

No sooner had the thought formed in her head than it turned toward her and glided closer, and again she heard that awful slithering sound. Clara shivered again and tried to scoot backwards, but she couldn't move fast enough.

It was right in front of her. The sleeves of its cloak concealed its hands from her. Clara was watching it warily, waiting for it to attack, so she jumped when it spoke to her. "You will provide a nice feast for me, you and your friend. Both so full of happiness and amusement and love," the creature practically purred, quivering with near-tangible excitement, "So much love."

Its voice startled her. She had been expecting it to be cold and dark and creepy, the voice of nightmares. Instead it was a lilting, musical murmur, pleasing to the ears. Clara found herself wishing it would speak again, wanting to hear that lovely voice again.

Then it reached for her. Wrapped its hand around her shoulder in a cold, bony grip.

The instant it made contact with her skin, white-hot agony speared her and all the hope drained out of her faster than water swirls down a drain. She was freezing, she was burning, she was dying, _oh please god make it stop!_

She couldn't fight, she was too tightly bound. So she did the only thing she _could _do.

She screamed.

"_DOCTOR!"_

* * *

_**Doctor**_

The Doctor opened his eyes and groaned as the sunlight sparkling off the snow stabbed his vision, blinding him. He threw a hand over his eyes as he got to his feet. How long had he been out?

_Clara. _Anything could've happened to her by now!

The Doctor swore under his breath, looking around wildly. Where was she? Where had she been taken?

There—in the snow. There was a trail, rather wide but not too deep, as though something had been dragged. The edges were smoking, just like the creature's trail.

Surely if he followed this, he would find Clara. Hopefully alive. Probably very unhappy with him. Probably hurt. _But please, oh Rassilon _please,_ let her still be alive!_ he begged silently as he started following the trail. He was grateful for the snow—it made tracking things so much easier.

It was colder. He was shivering and his breath made little puffs of vapor ahead of him. He was alone in a world of snow and fog and headstones. He'd never felt so alone before, or so worried. He probably ought to stay silent—it would help him maintain the element of surprise and sneak up on the enemy—but he was so worried.

"Clara?" he called. "Clara, are you there? Can you hear me?" Only echoes answered, his voice bouncing back around him, mocking him. He sighed and trudged on. He was anxious and guilty and afraid. It was his fault Clara had been taken. He should have paid closer attention. He should have fought harder. He shouldn't have blacked out. Anything that happened to her, any suffering she endured, was his fault. He wouldn't blame her if she hated him when he found her. The thought made his hearts ache. He'd just gotten her back after being isolated for days. He didn't think he could bear to lose her again so soon. He had to find her, had to save her.

He was trudging through the snow, following the path, hoping he wasn't going to be making an addition to the headstones around him, when he heard it. A sound that chilled his hearts and caused a deep ache within his soul.

Screaming.

It was Clara, he was sure. He would know her voice anywhere. She was screaming his name.

"_DOCTOR!" _came the cry, assaulting his ears. She sounded like she was in agony.

"_Clara!" _he yelled back. She just kept screaming, wordless cries of distress. He broke into a sprint, letting her voice guide him to her. "Clara, I'm coming! I'm on my way!"

As he ran, he made a silent promise. He promised that he would find whatever was causing her to feel such pain, and he would make it regret that it had ever harmed his Clara.

And the Doctor might lie, but he always kept his promises.

* * *

**[A/N: Hello lovely people. Happy Boxing Day! Special thanks again to my Nona for all her help in planning and editing for this chapter. I love you and I love my followers. Next chapter coming up soon. Even if I'm in a funk about Matt….*Sniff, sob* I am going to be a good girl and continue updating. What are your guys' thoughts on Capaldi? I think he shows potential and am trying to give him the benefit of the doubt but I just can't help sort of resenting him because his presence means Matt's absence. Anyways, what do YOU guys think? And how do you like my chapter? Leave a review, please!]**

**Love always,**

—**Makenna**


	7. Burning

**Chapter Seven—Burning**

_**Clara**_

It didn't eat her. No, it did something much worse than eat her. It fed from her. It leaned in close and pulled in another greedy, wheezing breath. Clara was staring up at it in wild terror, so she saw the sparkling silvery spheres it absorbed. They seemed to be coming from Clara herself. A bump would appear on her skin, would start to glow. Then it would detach itself and start to float away, only to be sucked in by the creature's raspy inhale. They swirled wildly like snowflakes in a blizzard, only to disappear into the black expanse where its face should have been.

It _hurt._ She couldn't believe how much it hurt. Every sparkling orb vanished was like a piece of her had been ripped away and crushed, ground to dust and scattered into ashes from which the creature would rise, refreshed and renewed. And all the while Clara felt unending pain. She was being dipped in acid, set on fire; it was like stepping into the Doctor's timeline, being ripped into billions of pieces, all over again.

She screamed until she could no longer make sound.

She sobbed and begged for mercy.

She writhed and kicked her feet and lashed out as much as she could while bound.

She swore vengeance on the creature, promising it would regret ever being born.

She hissed every profanity she knew and several she had picked up from the Doctor over time from between clenched teeth.

The effort was draining her, though. It was so hard to fight…why was she fighting? She couldn't defeat this thing alone. When she realized that, realized the truth, she lost the will to fight, to live. She slumped, and the only thing keeping her from collapsing in a useless heap on the cold concrete was the iron grip of the monster on her shoulders. Her vision was blurred and there were tears sitting on her cheeks, stuck in her lashes, blinding her further.

Cold…it was so cold. _She_ was so cold. Why was it so cold? Why was she still here? Why hadn't the Doctor saved her yet? If he was going to save her, surely he would be here by now. That could only mean, to her, that he wasn't coming. He'd given up on her. Left her behind, run off in his box to find a new companion. A choked sob escaped her. She was never getting out.

How long had she been burning? How long would she have to burn? Would she ever escape this hellish existence?

She had no concept of time passing. Each moment was exactly the same as the last and they all blurred together, becoming a single instant of exquisite agony. She stared straight ahead at the grey expanse of the wall as the creature fed. It was only when the blackness began to creep up on her that she realized time was, in fact, still passing. With the darkness came the numbness, and the numbness brought a blessed respite from the agony.

The creature exhaled long and slow as it finally released her. When it was no longer touching her all the pain melted into cold detachment. She was no longer burning. She wasn't sure what she was doing. She couldn't feel anything. There was no pain, no relief, no joy…she was nothing. She was a ghost, a zombie, just another echo.

She was nothing. Her eyes slid shut and she fell into grey oblivion.

She didn't sleep. It couldn't be called sleeping, what she was doing. There were no dreams and she didn't feel rested. She simply became…unaware. She wasn't aware of the chill of the ground beneath her or the darkness pressing all around her. She wasn't aware she was even alive.

Until the voice called out to her.

The one voice that mattered.

"Clara!" the voice said. "Clara, can you hear me? Oh, Clara please don't be dead. Stay alive, stay with me. Clara please, don't leave me, not again, I can't lose you again." His voice filled the emptiness in her mind like a lighthouse cut through the blackest night, guiding her back home. She knew that voice. She would always know that voice, always know him.

Her eyes opened and she was blinded by light. She squinted and turned her head away with a whimper. Why was it so bright? There should be no light—everything was cold and dark and empty inside, so the outside should be the same.

When she could stand the light without tearing up she looked back and found herself staring into those beautiful eyes she always knew no matter how much they changed. They were burning with cold fire—he was angry, and his anger was brilliant to behold.

Gradually, as she looked into those eyes, the numbness faded. She understood that the light which had initially blinded her was coming from the doorway—it was wide open and the light was floating in from outside, the brilliant sunlight reflecting dazzlingly off the snow. She realized he was touching her, cradling her. His thumb stroked her cheek, brushing away the tears there. His arms were tight around her. He was also shaking faintly. She realized she could move, and she sat up, though the effort it took astonished her and left her dizzy and sick. She sat still for several moments just looking at him and the name clicked into place.

She strained her voice, strained to make the words come. A hoarse whisper croaked out of her throat. "Doctor. You came…you're here…" He had finally come for her. She wasn't alone. He was going to rescue her and take her away, like he always did.

"Of course I came. Did you doubt me?" he murmured. She shrugged her shoulders because she was unable to think of a proper response. He sighed. "I'll always come, Clara. I'll always rescue you. I promise."

He promised. She knew he kept his promises, would do anything to keep his promise. But the promise was nothing, was meaningless. It did nothing to soothe her. She still felt…wrong. Cold and empty and afraid. She looked at her hands and saw that they were blistered and burned and shaking, whether from trauma or the chill, she wasn't sure. She looked back up at him and he was watching her. Focused only on her.

He didn't see the creature drifting inside behind him. He didn't hear the swish of its cloak or the hiss of his breath because he was so absorbed with listening to her breaths, her heartbeats.

She tried to warn him, she really did. But her voice still wasn't quite working. She tried to lift her arm, but it was heavier than lead. He saw her eyes widen in panic and fear. He turned, but it was too late. The creature grabbed him and pulled him away from her. Clara tried to hold on to him, to scream, but she was too weak and ended up falling flat on her stomach. She watched in horror as the creature began to feed off the Doctor.

He screamed. He thrashed. He cursed and lashed out violently. But when orbs the color of gold, of his regeneration energy, began to appear just before vanishing into the creature's cavernous face, he seemed to give up. He shuddered and the fire in his eyes went out as he slumped. Still the creature fed. He shook and moaned and whimpered but it wouldn't leave him be, wouldn't be satisfied until it had devoured him and completely destroyed him. Watching it hurt Clara almost as badly as experiencing it had. Fresh tears leaked out of her eyes.

_I love him,_ she thought. She recalled all the times and ways she loved him.

The first time he took her away, to Akhaten, and he had tried so hard to impress her.

The time she had woken in the middle of the night from a bad dream and he had found her, alone and sniffling, and without a word had pulled her into his arms and held her all night.

The time when she had straightened his bow tie and finally admitted, if only to herself, that it _was_ rather cool, at least on him.

The time he had told her she was the only mystery worth solving, and he had made her feel like she had a place and a meaning in the universe.

The time she had entered his time stream and he had risked the entire universe just to save her and bring her back.

All the times he had tried to sacrifice himself to save her or a friend or an enemy.

The way he waved his hands around as he spoke. The way he would talk a thousand miles a minute and speak absolute gibberish and expect her to follow. The way he would smile at her and make her feel like more than a silly girl but like…like…like someone important. The way he could look at a slimy, loathsome creature and find beauty in it. The way he seemed to always connect everything but then miss the incredibly obvious. The way he would blush sometimes, when she was brave and bold and actually flirted with him.

He was always brave. Brave and good and silly and kind and funny and childish and strong and vulnerable and…and…and he was the Doctor, _her_ Doctor. And she loved him.

She didn't know how she could be feeling love right now. Everything inside of her was hurt and guilt and anger and despair. But somehow love was there, too. Love for the Doctor. God, loving him _hurt_ sometimes. The times when he would look at her and seem to see right through her, or the times he would reminisce about Rose or River or some other lost love. Loving him was not easy because he was so impossible and so infuriating, but when she had begun running with the Doctor he hadn't just shown her the universe. He'd shown her how to appreciate it and enjoy every new thing. He had taught her so much and he had been so kind and brave.

After all they'd gone through, all the times they had saved each other, after all the laughs and hugs and tears they had shared, of course she loved him. How could she not?

She loved him. She had to save him. _Save the Doctor. Save the Doctor._ He needed her help.

_The Doctor needs you. Get up and help him,_ Clara thought desperately. She had to do something.

She had to save the Doctor.

* * *

**[A/N: Hello all. :) Did you like this chapter? Hate it? Have an idea to improve it? I still have only one vote on the Whouffle vs. Johnlock thing so if you want one or the other you'd better give some input because pretty soon I'm going to shut the voting polls and then it'll be too late and you'll be pissed you didn't. So, VOTE! Leave a review with your opinion: Do you want this story to end with Johnlock or Whouffle? Because I have plans for how it could go either way and I need to know what you guys want. You guys have until the end of Part One—which is coming soon—to cast your opinion into the voting pool.]**

—**Makenna**


	8. Damned

**Chapter Eight—Damned **

_**Doctor**_

Agony.

That was all he could feel, all he could think.

The agony of another creature devouring him, consuming every happy memory—dancing with Rose, running with Martha, befriending Donna, dancing at Amy and Rory's wedding, marrying River, finding Clara, saving Strax, traveling with Susan, living on Gallifrey before it was destroyed, being Santa for Kazran, accidentally getting engaged to Marilyn Monroe, the first time he flew his own TARDIS, all the times he'd saved the universe, Madame de Pompadour—all of those were gone, blotted out, being sucked away by the greedy creature inhaling all his joy and his victories and his livelihood, leaving him an empty shell with his darkest moments.

_Ending the Time War by committing double genocide and having to live with that guilt haunting him, hearing the screams of the burning children in his nightmares._

_Failing to save River at Demon's Run._

_All the times his companions left or were taken: Losing Rose to another dimension; Martha leaving him; Donna, unable to remember because she would burn if she did; Amy and Rory, taken by the angels, who died to be together; River, who sacrificed herself to save him; Clara, who he'd lost so many times and whom he was so afraid of losing again._

_When he'd gone to Trenzalore to save his friends, believing he was going to die._

_All the times he'd faced down an enemy—the Daleks, the Silence, the angels, the Cybermen, the Sontarans, the Sigorax, the Zygons, the Slitheen—sure he was going to die and accepting that hopeless bleakness as his reality, only to rarely escape and put off the inevitable for a few more years._

_Leaving his clone with Rose, because he knew he could never be enough for her, and she would be happier this way._

_Living with the guilt of never saying goodbye, always leaving them behind and never looking back because he didn't want to see the trail of tears and destruction he left in his wake._

A groan escaped the Doctor as tears cascaded down his cheeks. He was damned, that's what he was. A damned man running from the inevitable. It was all so pointless, _he _was so pointless. He couldn't save anyone, because in the end they all died anyways. He was no one's hero. He was no one's savior. He was a mad, genocidal man with a box, leaving his shadow on the universe.

The universe would be better without him, he thought bitterly. Time and time again he'd come close to death, only to somehow miraculously escape. Why? Why couldn't the universe just let him go? Why did he have to escape?

Because he was clever.

But what is the point of being clever, if nobody is there to admire your cleverness? It's an empty sensation that always returned—a little worse, a little harder to bear each time—when he lost them.

His name was a lie. He could not heal. He could not save. He only destroyed. And people praised him or damned him.

This went on for several minutes. The Doctor was losing himself, losing his mind. He wasn't aware that he was screaming or crying, he was too lost in his mental torment to notice any physical anguish, although some part of him was vaguely aware of a burning sensation tearing through his body, similar to the agony of regeneration.

He only became cognizant of this when it abruptly halted.

He collapsed to the cold, hard ground abruptly, gasping and shaking. His breath made fog in the air as he shuddered and tried not to whimper pathetically. He reached up to scrub at his face with trembling hands. Then after a few moments he became aware of the sounds of a struggle: muffled cries of pain, the heavy _thunk _of a fist colliding with flesh, the sudden crash of a body on the ground followed by a sickening _crack_ that the Doctor sincerely hoped was only a bone breaking and not something more serious, like a skull or a spine or a neck.

With a horrible feeling of foreboding, he slowly turned to look at the source of the sound. He immediately regretted it.

"_NO!_" he screamed, his throat raw and feeling as if it were on fire from its overuse. The sound of his cry seemed to be wrenched from his soul.

His first impression was of crimson, staining the drab gray concrete. The blood spilled from her skull as her dead eyes stared straight ahead blankly. Her body was lying spread-eagled on its back, and he shuddered, his eyes spilling liquid fire down his now-cold cheeks in the form of tears.

"No…" This time all he could manage was a broken moan. He fell to his knees by her body and pulled it into his arms, cradling her._ Not this time, Clara,_ he'd promised. _I won't let anything happen to you this time. I'll keep you safe. _Except that she had once again sacrificed herself to save him. Stupid, brave, sentimental fool—

Hissing laughter interrupted his thoughts. His head snapped up, and his eyes immediately locked on the creature. The blank expanse of its face was turned towards him, and it was mockingly chortling as Clara's blood stained his clothes. Gingerly, the Doctor set Clara down again, rising. As he set her aside, he also set aside all personal feelings: his grief, his anger, his shock, his pain, he brushed it all aside as easily as he brushed the dust off his sleeve. He would deal with that later. Right now, he had to destroy this creature. It would burn in hell for causing this.

He sort of blacked out for a moment there. He was still conscious. He was doing…something—Why did his knuckles hurt? Why were there blisters on his skin? Why was he so angry?—but it didn't seem to important. He just had to finish what he was doing.

What was he doing…?

He forced his eyes to focus.

Blood. Blood, everywhere. Blood on the walls, on the ground, on his hands, violent crimson staining his vision. His head spun as he slackened his grip on the cloak of the creature, and it fell in a heap at his feet.

Dead.

He'd killed it.

Oh god, he'd killed it.

He had to get out of here.

Returning to Clara, he woodenly picked her up and carried her back to the TARDIS. He was dimly aware of being grateful the graveyard was abandoned. It would've caused quite a stir if someone had seen him looking so macabre, carrying a girl with her skull cracked open. He shuddered again, hating how cold Clara felt cradled against him. Hating that he couldn't see her pulse beating in her throat. Hating that her eyes—once so warm and alive—were now completely blank and starting to film over. Hating the universe for taking her from him again, for being so cruel. Hating his whole damned existence.

He kicked the blue doors open and shut behind him, ignoring the groan of irate protest he received for that, and carried Clara downstairs to the room under the main control room. He gingerly laid her down on the hammock, as though she was asleep and he didn't want to wake her, instead of dead. He knelt by her body and brushed her hair back from her forehead with a shaking hand. No response. No flutter of the eyelids, no flush on the cheeks, no speeding of her pulse. He pressed his lips to her forehead, his eyes filled with tears that wouldn't come out.

He wished they would. He might feel better if he could cry, if he could get it out. He felt so empty, yet he was hurting so much. His hearts continued to beat, but each beat ached like a sledgehammer smashing against him from the inside, making breathing difficult. He started to gasp, and he leaned his head forward, touching his forehead to the edge of the hammock.

It was no good. It wasn't helping. He couldn't be by himself—he needed a friend, a companion. He needed Clara. _Clara, don't leave me. Please, I need you. Where have you gone this time? If I run fast enough, will I find you again?_

But she was gone. Gone again.

And this time he felt sure she wasn't coming back.

He couldn't handle it. His mind rejected it. Clara couldn't be gone, she wouldn't just leave him. Surely any second she would open her eyes, take his hand, and save him from this, too. Because that's what Clara does. She saved him, time and again, from everything: Daleks, Cybermen, bad luck, even himself.

Still, no twitch of the hand. No breath entering her lungs. She was gone. She had left, just like all the others. He was alone, he was gone. He closed his eyes as gray dots began to sparkle along his vision. Was he hyperventilating? He couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't handle this.

He was on his own. There was no one left to save the Doctor.

* * *

**[A/N: Okay so I feel like such a horrible person right now, I know I haven't updated in a while. What can I say, life is busy and it sucks. Not to mention I've been having a bit of block for this. HOWEVER, I have finally figured out how I want to do this. So I stayed up till midnight, sacrificing precious sleep and study time to type this up to give to you guys. I am officially closing the voting for this story, as I have the couple picked based on the eleven votes I have received. They won by only one vote, too—it was so close!]**

**[However…since I'm a horrible person…I'm not going to tell you which couple won. I'm going to let you guys figure it out as the story progresses. Yeah, yeah I know, suspense and hate and crying and angst…I'M SORRY BUT I'M A WRITER! It's how I keep you guys coming back to read more. :) I know, I'm a sadist and a horrible person.]**

**[Also… don't hate me for how I ended this chapter and **_**PLEASE don't abandon this story! **_**I feel like such a Moffat, but killing Clara was necessary for the story line. I'm sorry—don't hate me! DON'T HATE ME PLEASE. *Runs away screaming from the angry fangirl mob assembling with torches and pitchforks* DON'T KILL ME OR YOU DON'T GET TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.]**

—**Makenna**

* * *

**P.S. I'll try to update again soon!**

**P.P.S. Part One is probably end soon.**


	9. Coping

**Chapter Nine—Coping**

_**Doctor**_

The Doctor went a bit mental after that. He threw whatever his hands touched at the walls, scattering shards of glass, books with their spines broken flopped helplessly on the ground, . He screamed. He cried. He kicked the wall, and swore as his toe throbbed sharply.

The physical pain was nothing to the turmoil inside of him.

He leaned against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor, his legs pulled up against his chest. His forehead fell on his knees as he sobbed and shook.

It might have been minutes. It could have been hours or even days. He cried and cried until he had no tears left. His head was throbbing and he felt sick. He looked up, his eyes dull and red-rimmed, and realized that, somehow, the universe was still intact. The world continued to spin. He continued to breathe and his hearts continued to beat. That meant he had to find a way to move on…somehow. He cringed at the idea, repelled at the thought of going on without Clara.

He had to, though. Clara would have been furious with him if he fell apart over something so "trivial" as her death. Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, the Doctor lurched to his feet. His bleary eyes were drawn to Clara, and he felt them prick again as the reality of losing her hit him all over again. He scrubbed at his face, sighing. How long until he could function again? How long would he continue to wake up and not desire to roll over and pull the pillow over his face, shutting out the universe?

He could feel the TARDIS reaching out, trying to touch him, comfort him. He pushed it away brusquely, the sentiment only reminding him of all the times Clara had been balm to his aching hearts. Remembering Clara hurt almost as much as losing her. The Doctor shuddered and took all the memories, all the feelings, everything crowding in his aching head distracting him and making him miserable, and shoved it all into a box in his head. Then he shoved that box into a safe, which he promptly locked.

He felt numb, but the numbness was bliss after the pain of losing someone you love.

* * *

There were things to be dealt with, he knew. Nothing he looked forward to.

Things like Clara's funeral. Explaining what had happened, how it was his fault.

They would tell him not to say that, of course it wasn't. He knew it was, though. Clara had sacrificed herself to save his life. Of course it was his fault.

They would tell him that blaming himself wouldn't accomplish anything, but he needed someone, some tangible entity to blame, to be angry with, to scream his pain and sorrow to. Who better than himself?

At night, when he was unable to sleep, he would open the safe and pull out the box. He would let the feelings flow through him, let the memories haunt and torment him. He let his mind do what it wanted because fighting it down was like fighting back a tidal wave. He just wasn't strong enough.

Grief slammed into him, made his hearts heavy and breathing difficult. Grief was always followed quickly by anger. Anger at Clara, for being so _stupid_, for leaving him. Anger at himself for breaking his promise, for not saving her. Anger at the universe, for giving her to him only to steal her away yet again.

These emotions and thoughts circled his head in unending loops until eventually he was able to shut the lid of the box on them again, able to lock the safe, leaving him drained, numb, and sleep-deprived.

* * *

A week passed before he succumbed to exhaustion and finally slept. His dreams were haunted, people he loved drifting through grey fog. He called out to them, and they would turn to him, stare at him with cold, unforgiving eyes. He would try to run to them, to explain, to beg for their forgiveness. But the instant he got within touching distance, the specters would vanish, and soon he was alone, lost in a world of grey fog and sorrow and confusion.

He awoke with a start and shuddered, drenched in cold sweat. He stared around his room—it hadn't changed scenery at all in the last week, it still held the appearance of a meadow, with purple flowers and lush green grass, but the sky was overcast and there was no visible sun—and for the first time realized how cluttered it was. Clothes heaped on the floor where he tossed them at the end of each day, his sheets were falling off his bed, cascading towards the floor. There were books and papers scattered on the floor, his dresser, along with pens and pencils. The violin lay untouched, gathering dust on the floor by his closet.

The Doctor sighed and slowly got up, promising himself he'd tidy up later as he got dressed. He'd decided that today was the day he would finally deal with the aftermath of Clara's death, the funeral and the questions and trying to move on. He left his room, going to the TARDIS Console Room and plugging in the coordinates of Clara's home on Earth.

Time to start the process of coping.

* * *

**[A/N: Okay…I know I'm awful. I sort of left you guys hanging for a while with that last chapter, and I am so sorry. I've been going through midterms and trying to keep my grades up. In the course of this month I've had three panic attacks and once I actually had to go to the nurse because I was freaking out so much I started hyperventilating and passed out. It's been crazy and I've been busy and in a funk. HOWEVER, I'M BACK! YAY! And so with the return of me comes the return of the Doctor.]**

**[This chapter…I actually sort of got inspired to it while listening to****"Imaginary", and "My Immortal" by **_**Evanescence**_**. They gave me ideas for how to proceed, so thanks Evanescence! :)]**

**[Special shout-out to Guest and "I'm Counting the Stars", for reviewing. You guys have my love! Okay, so I'm sure you guys probably don't want to hear any more from me, so I'm gonna wrap this up now. Hope you liked my chapter. If you did, leave a review to let me know. If not, leave a review to tell me why so I can try to make it better for next time. Love and hugs for all!]**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

—**MakennaRoth**

**[P.S. OH, GUYS. I wrote this crackfic called "Egglock". Here's the URL: s/10059699/1/Egglock-Crack-Fanfic You should check it out, if you have the time. :) Shutting up for real now, bye! Ilysm!]**


End file.
